


Away

by the_haven_of_fiction



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_haven_of_fiction/pseuds/the_haven_of_fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fictional Tom has taken up a particular habit in memory of recent lost Love and receives some wise words that help his grieving process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away

**Author's Note:**

> Based on personal experiences and conversations with friends, and partly inspired by Away - Chris Mann. I encourage everyone to participate in Fictional Tom’s actions. A simple Google search can lead you to the appropriate location. :)

He did it because he knew she would have wanted him to.  He did it because it helped feel like he was doing something to help save lives now that he couldn’t help hers anymore.  He did it because the place was oddly peaceful, from the time he got out of the car and was greeted by the smell of the lavender bushes that formed a kind of fragrant wall of protection around the building to the time he stepped out back into the world.  It had struck him on his first visit, instantly making him think of her shampoo and the long brunette waves that he saw now only in pictures and memories.  He took it as a confirmation that this was the place she would have chosen.

The same faces were usually there, faces that had names after the second or third visit.  He knew enough now to ask Patty about her 12 year old Maltese, to ask Jorge if he’d worked up the nerve to propose to his girlfriend yet, to ask Miy Lin if her team was still on track to make it to the post-season.  He knew she would have liked that, too.  She would have wanted a picture of Mr.Barkley’s latest grooming, would have wanted to send him with engagement ring suggestions, would have knitted a blanket in the appropriate team colors. 

Sometimes he felt guilty that it had taken a death to make him aware of the importance of this act.  He’d seen the bumper stickers and the occasional add in magazines, but like countless others, hadn’t taken any steps to be a part of it.  Now it was something he did as often as they would let him.

Patty always teased him about his type and had taken to calling him Professor A+ after she’d found him helping a college student in the next chair edit his term paper on Shakespeare.  She knew something was wrong the first time the name passed her lips and his sweet blue eyes were instantly filled with tears.  His long fingers gripped the small bag of his favorite biscuits that she was handing him with such strength, as if the intensity of the pain around his heart could be transferred out with that force.

No, it’s fine, he assured her when she rushed to apologize.  It was just that She had called him Professor, She had teased him about being the hot faculty member on campus one day, She had giggled over the idea of a line of students waiting in the hall during his office hours.

He ached for the sound of that giggle again.  How often did he catch a slight movement from the corner of his eye and turn, expecting to see her walking toward him.  But she wasn’t there, and yet she was.  Every room felt like a room that she had just left.  Her shadow seemed to be all around him, seen but also somehow invisible. 

Work had taken him away from her for more days than they had been together.  Away.  What a strange idea.  That kind of Away was so different.  It was temporary.  This Away.  This Away was permanent.  He’d always had strength for the temporary Away.  This Away.  This permanent Away. 

How am I supposed to find the strength to be Away from her, he’d asked Patty one day as he sat in the usual chair, the weight of grief feeling overpowering that particular afternoon.

She was almost a bit flustered at first and he apologized for asking such a question, nearly stumbling over the words, telling her that he knew she hadn’t experienced the same kind of loss and so how could she answer him? 

She didn’t respond immediately and he could sense that she was sifting through the thoughts in her mind, trying to light upon the ones she wanted most.

“You know, that’s true.  I haven’t lost what you’ve lost.  The fact of the matter is that my lack of specific, exactly similar experience doesn’t lessen my compassion for you.”

He knew her gentle nature, as she seemed to be the sort of Mother Hen of the younger employees.  He knew that she wasn’t meaning to chastise him and now he was the silent one.

“I’ve seen literally thousands of people come and go here over the years and they all have an individual story.  A lot of them are like you, they do what you are doing for a similar reason, because of loss or pain.  One thing I’ve learned from my own life and from talking with them is that sometimes an odd thing occurs.  As a society, we don’t really have modern traditions of a particular grieving period.  I’ve seen people in the same family dealing with the same loss.  The ones who are able to process it and learn to live with the new reality the most successfully are the ones who understand the up and down nature of it.”

Her lips pursed to one side for a moment before she continued.

“Those people allow themselves to have good days.  But the odd thing is when others feel like they have to keep themselves in a sort of subdued state, like if they smile or laugh that it somehow diminishes their love for the lost one or that they must not be truly grieving.”

There was silence for a few heartbeats.

“That’s rubbish.  Don’t consign yourself to that idea.  It’s faulty at its core.  There will be good days and bad days, and there are times when the bad days will seem never-ending.  That’s when another odd thing occurs. We seem to think that the only people who can really help us must be those who have experienced the same kind of loss or anxiety or depression.”

She paused and looked up from his arm to see that his expression was confirming her hypothesis.

“I’d wager that you are avoiding well-meaning friends because of that.  I’ve seen you look at texts and not answer them.  I’ve been here long enough to know what that usually means.”

A few tears slipped down his cheeks when he nodded slightly, causing her to hand him a tissue from the box on the tray.

“I also know that when people don’t know what to say at times like this, they often say something stupid.  That’s unfortunate.  Sometimes it’s ignorance, but it usually isn’t lack of concern.”

She was right.  He knew she was right.  Blurred faces from the funeral flashed in his memory, along with blurred words. 

“Often the words that people choose don’t accurately capture what they actually want to express,” she said, as if reading his mind.  “They ask what are simply stupid questions.  People ask “How are you?” and that seems insensitive.  But that question usually means “I care about you and I don’t know how to tell you that.”

He gave a brief hum in agreement, remembering times in his own life when he had been the source of ill-chosen words; and it was precisely as she was describing, simply a disconnect between the actual intent and the verbalization. 

“I’m not sure why I’m saying all of this, but…” a slight frown furrowing her brow, “but as an outsider looking in, I’m encouraging you not to reject sincere displays of love and concern from some people.  Intelligence, imagination, and compassion can equate to a wonderfully pure form of sympathy from those who haven’t had the same experience.”

The sound of another tissue being pulled from the box caused him to open his eyes.  She pressed it into his hand and smiled thoughtfully, giving him a few seconds to wipe away the wetness.

“You know, Tom,” her tone quite gentle, “in a way, that’s almost more commendable.  If life has brought people the same pain, they are almost bound to each other by default.  Of course it’s encouraging to know that others have made it through, because it makes us feel like we can, too.  But the ones who haven’t experienced it and seek to provide you comfort because they love you, that’s a true sign of friendship.”

It was his turn to be the observer and she suddenly blushed at his piercing gaze, feeling like she had said too much and crossed some kind of professional boundary.

“You’ve been that friend, haven’t you?” asked softly as he rested his hand on hers in an attempt to keep her from retreating in embarrassment.

There was a brief hesitation and then an affirmation of his question.

“More than once.  The most frustrating one was my sister.  She went through a divorce and essentially told me to leave her alone because I didn’t know how she felt.”

“Yes?” not quite a question, but offered to let her know that he wanted more.

“That was so hurtful.  It was like a kind of rejection.  It made me feel like I should apologize for having a marriage that is going on ten years strong.  I love her and I wanted to help her and let her know that I cared about her, even if it was just asking about her day or offering to come over with dinner and a movie.  I know she was in terrible pain, her life was being ripped apart; I know.  Please don’t misunderstand what I’m trying to say, I don’t blame her, I just –“

Her voice had taken on a hushed intensity and she was unable to continue.  He took advantage of the moment and squeezed her hand.

“I understand what you mean,” the assurance uttered with conviction. “Thank you for telling me.  I admit, I’ve been selfish in using grief as a reason to avoid people who truly love me and as a reason to be…to be short with people.”

“It can be necessary at first, for sure,” she continued, “and I’m not saying that you aren’t allowed to exercise some discretion or that you have to open yourself up to anyone and everyone; but as time goes on, we have to learn to look beyond our own pain and realize that people are hurting for us and want to help.  If they are truly our friend, they will give us space and let us deal with it on our own terms; it’s just important to learn how to accept their concern.  I left my sister alone for a while and then I went out a limb, risking her anger, and asked her to tell me tangible ways that I could help her.  Don’t be afraid to do that with people in your life, to be specific.  If they really love you, they will listen.”

“If I may ask, what did your sister tell you?”

“She called me back the next day and asked if my husband and I could take care of her yard for a while.  Her ex was very meticulous about that and had always been the one who mowed and watered and all that.  It was just something that she wasn’t able to deal with at the time.”

Both of his arms reached out to hug her before he realized that the needle and apparatus would prevent it. 

“A one-armer will do,” she chuckled at him. “I’ll take a bear style one when you’re all patched up.”

“Yes, ma’m,” he mocked saluted her with his free hand and sat back in the chair.

“What snack would you like today?”

“Whatever you’d like to give me.  I have some texts to return.”

A grin decorated her face as she walked away.


End file.
